


the ghost in you, she don't fade

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stranger Things Fusion, Blood and Injury, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Hugging after they've been through hell, Hurt/Comfort, Monsters, Non-Linear Narrative, Obsession, Sexual Content, Stalking, Suspense, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and still pretty vague, but still more explicit than i usually write, if someone thinks of another tag i should add just let me know!, the sex stuff is super brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: The wooded area behind the Collins’ property stretches for about nine square miles with the highway into town bordering the far side and the Blake property guarding the southernmost corner. Nine square miles.It might as well be a million.Clarke takes another fortifying breath.It does no good to think about Bellamy. He’s no longer part of the equation. He’s made that abundantly clear.A Bellarke Stranger Things AU for Chopped Choice: Horror!Theme: HorrorTrope 1: Friends with Benefits AUTrope 2: Based on a TV Show (Stranger Things)Trope 3: Non-linear storyTrope 4: Characters hug after they've been through hell
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41
Collections: Chopped Choice: Horror





	the ghost in you, she don't fade

_ November 7, 1984, 11:46 p.m. _

Clarke arches her spine, electricity coursing through her nerves. Sweat beads across her lower back and as she comes down off her high she squirms at the sensation of the rough sheets sticking to her bare skin. A gust of wind rattles the window panes with an agonizing creaking sound and the amber light pooling over the bed from the lamppost outside flickers precariously. Light and shadow flash back and forth, matching her erratic shuddering breaths. Bellamy’s  _ Evil Dead  _ poster on the far wall leers at her and she flicks her gaze away, willing her heart back to a calmer pace.

Bellamy slowly pulls away, drawing a soft whine from Clarke’s lips. He grins, holding up two fingers and examining the way they glisten in the intermittent orange glow.

“So wet for me,” he teases. She doesn’t flinch at the slight bite behind the playful tone. Only juts her chin up towards him proudly, never minding the way her long hair is tangled under one elbow.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare at it all night? Or can we get this show on the road?” she snaps.

Bellamy’s gaze darkens and she bites her lower lip in anticipation, reading the flashes of lust and pent-up rage crossing his face as easily as she could read a book. His hands find her palms, his roughened callouses scraping over her smooth fingertips as he pins her arms over her head. She only has time for a single, breathless gasp before his mouth slants over her own, smothering her with a kiss. His tongue is sweet and heavy, his teeth catch on her lip and she swallows the taste of him eagerly, cigarette smoke and salt and musk. Clarke chases the different notes, like a drug addict desperate for another high. 

Bellamy doesn’t give her a warning, only the way his wrists tense suddenly gives her a split second of clarity before he drives into her and swallows her moans.

“Shh…” He moves his lips to her earlobe and mouths gently against the soft skin there. “My mom will hear.”

Clarke let’s her eyes close, rocking forward into Bellamy’s hips just enough to hear him swear under his breath. A hint of a smile plays around the corner of her lips.

“Just fuck me, Bell. I’ll be quiet.”

He growls, sending a shiver down her spine, and then sets a punishing pace. The rickety bed squeaks softly with every push and pull, but the room is otherwise silent. The only way Clarke can tell he’s getting close is the raggedness of his breathing. She twists her head sideways, biting into a mouthful of pillowcase to keep herself from screaming as Bellamy brings her right up her peak.

“Yes,” she groans, muffled into her makeshift gag. “Yes, please…”

They fall together, Bellamy hurriedly pulling out to spill across her stomach. He clenches their fingers tightly together, lips hovering inches above her own, breaths still coming short and fast.

Clarke finally opens her eyes again. Meets his gaze. 

Dark with something else now. Something warmer. Deeper.

She wiggles out from under him and he slowly lets her slide away, collapsing to his side on the wrinkled sheets.

Clarke swings her feet to the floor and gives herself a minute to take a breath.

“Good?” Bellamy’s gravelly voice sends another shuddering through her.

“Good.”

A thunderclap echoes outside and the outdoor light flickers off and doesn’t come back on. Raindrops start to patter off of the window.

Bellamy takes a long breath and Clarke can almost hear him weighing his words. “You should stay.”

She can’t help the warm flutter low in her belly as she turns around to give him a small smile.

“Bell, you know…”

“You could,” he says quickly. It’s too dark to see his face now. Only the outline of his body is visible against the window. “I know you could. And it’s storming.”

A flash of lightning brightens the room and for a split second Clarke sees his face, tense with something akin to fear.

“I’ll be fine. I have an interview first thing in the morning anyways.”

She casts about with one foot until her toes find the hem of her panties and she tugs them closer. The sheets rustle behind her and then she feels Bellamy’s fingers ghosting across her bare back, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind.

“Why always so quick to leave, Princess?” he murmurs. “Not happy with me?”

“No,” Clarke dips down to grab her shirt and throws it on, ignoring the way Bellamy grumbles as his hand is pushed back. “I’m just…”

Her words catch in her throat as Bellamy’s hand snakes around her waist to rest just under the hem of her shirt, fingers splaying warmly across her stomach.

“I know,” he mutters. “It’s okay.”

He slips his hand away and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her wrinkled jeans are crumpled just under the bed and she kicks them out into the open to shimmy into them.

Another deep roll of thunder shakes the little house and the rain clatters in sweeping waves against the window. Bellamy shifts a little and Clarke huffs in frustration at his unvoiced concern.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just a little rain.”

Even in the dark, she feels the heat of his gaze. “Right. Just a little rain.”

Clarke bites back a thousand words that spring to the tip of her tongue and settles for tugging her sneakers on so aggressively that one of her laces snaps.

“I’ll call you,” she mutters, flinging her jacket over her arm.

“Good luck.”

She pauses in the doorway. “What?”

Bellamy leans forward slightly, head tilted just enough so she can make out the silhouette of his wayward curls. “Your interview? Good luck with your interview?”

“Oh.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “Thanks.”

She leaves before he hears her heart racing.

  
  
  


_ November 7, 1983 _

“Oh, that’s just pathetic.”

Josephine’s wry tone draws Clarke’s attention away from whatever Finn is trying to whisper in her ear and across the hall to the announcement board by the door. To Bellamy Blake.

“What do you want to bet he killed her?” Finn chuckles quietly.

Bellamy either doesn’t hear his group of classmates or chooses to ignore them as he yanks a piece of paper from the stack under his arm and lines it up on a clear space on the board.

Gabriel slings one arm around his girlfriend as she snaps her gum, one finger twirling a lock of hair around and around. “Disgusting.”

Bellamy’s hair is too long, black curls sweeping down the back of his neck and dangling over his ear tips. The frayed collar of his jacket is turned up, as if to hide him away from prying eyes as much as possible. One elbow is worn out, the grey fabric of his sleeve underneath poking through.

He does look pathetic.

His gaze darts over to the little clique for a fraction of a second and Clarke can hardly breathe at the strange mix of fear and revulsion bleeding from his face. He turns back to his poster and she swallows hard.

He looks lonely.

Ignoring Finn’s soft protest, Clarke slowly crosses the hall to stand next to Bellamy.

“Hey,” she says, throat so dry she can hardly squeak out the word.

He faces her again and this time he is all fear. Like an animal caught in a trap.

“Hey.” His voice is deep. Almost gravelly. Nothing like her own timid murmur.

He certainly doesn’t  _ sound _ scared.

Clarke wets her lips shakily. Up close she can see the warm brown color of his eyes. The myriad freckles covering his cheekbones. There’s a slight paleness to his lips and neck that suggests how tensely he’s holding himself and she resists the sudden urge to reach out and touch his arm. 

She’s still staring at him and he’s staring back and suddenly her heartbeat slams back into her throat nearly choking her.

“Um…” She gestures clumsily to the poster. “I’m… really sorry about…”

He stares at her, unblinking. Gaze cutting her to the bone.

Fuck. She’s terrible at this.

“About… your sister,” she stutters, tongue thick in her mouth.

Bellamy’s jaw tenses but he doesn’t say anything, only turns and drives another staple into the poster. Smiling out from the black and white poster is a grainy image of Octavia Blake. Long dark hair swept over one shoulder and a grin that belongs to a movie star. Even as a freshman, she’s been the object of every highschool boy’s obsession this year. Until now.

Bellamy runs his hand over the poster, as if smoothing it out and nods slightly.

“Thank you.”

“What?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“For… saying that?”

“Oh.” A rush of heat floods her face and she hurriedly swings her arm back to indicate her gaggling group of friends. “We’re um… we’re all thinking of you.”

Bellamy’s gaze twitches up over her shoulder as if assessing the onlookers and then back down to her face. She thinks there’s a wry twinkle somewhere deep in the darkness of his eyes as he pockets his stapler.

“Thanks.”

The warning bell for first period clangs out overhead and Clarke’s never felt more grateful or reluctant for the excuse. She takes a step backwards.

“I’ve got to go. History test.”

Bellamy watches her impassively as she beats a hasty retreat back to the safety of Finn’s arm and Josephine’s giggle. But even after they turn the corner down the hall, she can feel the burn of Bellamy’s lingering stare.

  
  
  


_ November 8, 1984, 9:23 a.m. _

The morning air is crisp and bright, a slight breeze chasing away any dampness left from the storm. Clarke breathes deeply, tucking her hands deep into her fleece-lined jacket pockets as she walks. The sun casts a pale light with no warmth across the wooded valley. Long, spindly shadows from the bare treetops crisscross Clarke’s path as she carefully winds her way through the undergrowth.

Bellamy will undoubtedly ask about her “interview” later. But she has plenty of time to come up with a good excuse. Some kind of art school in New York maybe. Or a newspaper in need of a comic strip artist.

Finn’s house looms suddenly against the treeline. Clarke finds herself unconsciously tiptoeing among the dead leaves heaped along the edges of the Collins’ property. Their heated pool sends up small tufts of steam into the frosty air and for a moment Clarke stares in frozen agony at the sight. A torrent of unpleasant memories drum at the back of her brain and she shoves them away with some effort, forcing her feet to keep moving.

The wooded area behind the Collins’ property stretches for about nine square miles with the highway into town bordering the far side and the Blake property guarding the southernmost corner. Nine square miles.

It might as well be a million.

Clarke takes another fortifying breath. A year’s worth of searching means that most of the hidden gullies and steep banks sprinkled throughout the woods are familiar enough for her to safely navigate on her own. Still, she double checks that her safety whistle is tucked under her sweater. The memory of Bellamy bestowing it upon her like it was a victory wreath springs to mind unbidden and she smiles. Back when they were in this together.

It does no good to think about Bellamy. He’s no longer part of the equation. He’s made that abundantly clear. 

  
  
  


_ November 16, 1983 _

Bellamy is in the parking lot when Clarke finally hunts him down. Her breaths tug raggedly at her chest as she stumbles into a frantic run through the rows of student and teacher cars.

“Bellamy!”

She sees the minute that his shoulders tense at the sound of her voice, the split second he steels himself for her intrusion. Maybe she should feel bad about that. She doesn’t.

“Bellamy!”

She sucks in a deep, desperate breath as she reaches his car and he turns slightly to glare at her.

“What?”

Her loose hair wafts into her face and she yanks it away angrily. She hasn’t washed it in days.

“I just want to help.” She takes another breath, shaking with the effort and steadies herself enough to look him in the eye. “I want to help.”

Bellamy scoffs and walks around the front of his car to open the driver’s side door. “Help with what?”

“Finding them!”

He pauses, one hand gripping the top of his door so tightly that she can see his knuckles go white. “There’s nothing to find.”

Anger surges through her. She stomps forward, slamming her palms down on the hood of the car. “I  _ know _ you’re still looking for your sister. No matter what the police say.”

Bellamy doesn’t look at her. Somewhere on the other side of the highschool a low cheer goes up. The kickoff for the playoff game.

“Shouldn’t you be with your friends?” he questions lowly.

A shiver runs violently up Clarke’s spine, a low buzz starting at the back of her head. “Excuse me?”

“You know…” Bellamy turns back to her, eyes burning with something dangerous. “So you can all just…  _ think _ about me.”

His venom nearly knocks her over. Nearly.

“How dare you?” she yells, voice so sharp it nearly cuts her throat. “This isn’t just about you anymore. Or your sister. My friend…”

“You and your fucking friends brought this on yourselves,” Bellamy growls. “I don’t need your help now and I’ve  _ never _ needed help from  _ you people _ .  _ Never _ , you hear me?”

Clarke clenches her fists, pressing her fingernails deep into her palm. “Why won’t you just listen to me? We’re going through the same thing! We can help each other figure this out and save them!”

Bellamy steps forward and slams his own fists down on the hood. His eyes are twin coals in a mask of fury. “We. Are not. The same.”

The words slam into Clarke and she takes a step back as Bellamy climbs into the car. Tires squeal as he peels out of the parking lot.

Clarke slowly unclenches her fist and watches as thin lines of blood well up along her palm.

Fuck Bellamy Blake.

  
  
  


_ November 8, 1984, 10:04 a.m. _

The branches rustle thinly around her. The sunlight is nearly gone, swallowed by wisps of leftover storm clouds, leaving the forest bathed in a dingy beige. Dry leaves, thinner than newspaper, stir up in miniature whirlwinds in the hidden gullies. Clarke strains her eyes as she combs over the mottled mix of ashen browns and dusty greys, looking for anything out of place. Any clue.

The wind suddenly dies to a near standstill, leaving Clarke with nothing but a shimmering of goosebumps on the back of her neck. A low pitched gurgling echoes softly behind her.

“Hello?”

Nothing but tree trunks behind her, silent and watchful. She turns slowly the other way.

“Hello?”

The gurgling echoes again, this time off to her right. Closer.

A fresh wave of goosebumps crawls across her arms. She takes a step towards the sound, shuffling crackling leaves aside.

The gurgling quickens and a high pitched cry joins the tones. A brief, soft cry. Just enough to make Clarke’s hair stand on end.

“Octavia?” she whispers, even though the cry doesn’t quite sound female. It doesn’t quite sound human.

Clarke pushes aside a particularly thick bush, ignoring the prickling of thorns stabbing through her sleeve.

The cry peaks into a shriek. Gut wrenching. Definitely inhuman.

Clarke stumbles backwards, thorn branches whipping back into place as she lets go. Pained gurgling echoes in her ears as she turns and runs. One leaden foot in front of the other. Her own panicked breath is so loud she can’t stand it, but her lungs keep pumping, hot and too heavy in her chest. 

One more step. I just need to keep taking one more step.

One step. One step. One step.

The outline of the Collins’ house peers through the gaps in the trees and she sobs in relief. Her legs buckle as she stumbles across the property line and collapses on the pavement by the pool. Swirls of steam writhe around her, as if angry at her intrusion.

Keep moving, Clarke. Not safe.

Keep moving.

Get up. Move!

She pushes herself to her feet, knees shaking.

“Bellamy.”

Tell Bellamy.

Clarke keeps moving.

  
  
  
  
  


_ April 25, 1984 _

Five months and eighteen days. Clarke tries not to keep track but it’s like an automatic timer buried somewhere deep in her subconscious.

Five fucking months.

And eighteen days.

She slams her locker door shut hard enough to make nearly everyone in the hallway jump in surprise.

“Fuck, Princess. Not a good day?”

Bellamy grins at her with no warmth and she scoffs at him, falling easily into matching stride as they walk towards the main doorway.

“As good as it always is.”

They hit the outside doors in sync, shouldering their way out into the parking lot. The last remnants of winter are finally gone, the warmth of the spring breeze caressing Clarke’s bare arms and dancing through Bellamy’s tangled curls.

She finds herself wondering what it might feel like weave her fingers between the curls and tug hard enough to make Bellamy gasp.   
“What are you staring at?” Bellamy’s smirk is teasing this time. Familiar.

Clarke doesn’t shrink away from him.

“Nothing great, honestly.”

He shoves her hard enough to send her stumbling a few steps to the side and she shrieks in mock protest as her backpack slides haphazardly to the ground and the contents spill across the pavement.

“Bell! Seriously?”

He laughs and bends next to her to help her grab the colored pens rolling in ten different directions. “My bad. Sorry.”

They both make a grab for the red pen and their knuckles graze just enough to send a heated flutter through Clarke’s belly.

“It’s okay. Really.” She snatches the pen back and stuffs it into her backpack before moving on to the multiple notebooks lying with pages askew.

“So where are we looking today?” she asks, hurrying to brush off the interaction. “I know you’re tired of the woods behind the Collins’ house, but I think maybe we should check again now that the snow is all melted and maybe we’ll see something that…”

“Clarke?”

Bellamy’s voice is cold. Stony. Alien.

Clarke spins, notebooks scattering again.

Bellamy’s lips are set in a pale line as he shuffles through a collection of scrap paper. Scrap paper covered in pencil sketches that Clarke recognizes instantly.

“Bellamy. Give those to me.” She doesn’t recognize her own voice either.

Bellamy doesn’t stop shuffling through the sketches. Sketches of his own face. Dozens of them.

“Bellamy.” Her voice cracks. “Please.”

“What the fuck are these?” He stands abruptly and Clarke’s knees pop as she stands with him.

“I was… I’m…”

Bellamy yanks one of the sketches from the stack and dangles it in front of her face. “What the fuck were you doing?”

Clarke just stares, mouth open, as the words refuse to come out.

“And these?” Bellamy drops the sketch to grab a strip of flimsy newspaper. “These are from when Octavia was seven.  _ Seven _ .” He tosses the newspaper clipping to the ground, a fluttering picture of seven-year-old Octavia proudly posing with a little league softball medal. “How far back did you dig?”

Clarke twists her toes harshly into the cement. “You… you didn’t want to work together at first, Bell. And I needed to look for myself. What was I supposed to do?”

His neck is flushed red. “Not stalk my fucking family? Not try to force yourself somewhere you weren’t wanted? This is… this is insane.  _ You’re _ fucking insane.”

Clarke wants to cry. But the dam won’t burst. Something about Bellamy’s voice, his eyes, is like a plug holding back the flood. She’s stuck, frozen, as she watches him tear the stack of sketches and newspaper articles in half. The pieces flutter like misfit butterflies on the soft spring breeze, decorating the parking lot in bits of white.

“I was right in the first place,” Bellamy says. He’s quieter now and somehow that’s worse. “I don’t need you. So just stay away.”

  
  
  


_ November 8, 1984, 10:40 a.m. _

Aurora Blake is at work and Bellamy’s car is parked crookedly in the matted grass in front of the Blake house, so Clarke doesn’t hesitate to throw the door open unannounced, letting it bang against the wall hard enough to leave a dent from the inside knob.

“Bellamy!”

He’s running from the back hall already, whiter than a sheet.

“Clarke? What…”

“I need to talk to you.” The words come out in gasps as she holds the stitch in her side. She ran almost the entire three miles to his house, unable to shake the feeling of being hunted.

Bellamy shakes his head slightly, grabbing her elbow and steering her to the end of the hall to sit on the end of his bed. She’s not often in his bedroom in the daylight anymore and it throws her for a second as he closes the door.

“Talk to me.” He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, legs wide. Even in his boxers and soft white t-shirt, he’s imposing, corded muscles standing out along his arms and legs.

“Clarke,” he urges.

“I… I saw…”

_ What _ ?

Bellamy waits expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“I was at the Collins’ property this morning.”

A flurry of emotions cross Bellamy’s face, finally settling on anger. This she expected.

“You did  _ what _ ?”

Clarke sets her shoulders firmly, holding her head high. “I went back to the Collins’ this morning. To look for clues.”

She’s not expecting the way he surges forward, leaning over her close enough that his breath catches at the flyaway hairs around her temples. “You  _ promised _ .”

She bites her lip, trying not to waver. “I never promised.”

“But I trusted you anyway.” Bellamy shoves himself back and grabs at his hair, tugging it in exasperation. “Shit, Clarke. We were done with this.”

She takes a shaky breath, pressing on. “I know. But I saw…”

“It doesn’t matter!” Bellamy whirls on her again. Pain paints his expression. “I can’t keep doing this. You lie to me. You lead me on. You throw yourself in danger. I don’t understand.”

She swallows thickly. “Please, I just need to explain.”

“We said that this was over. They’re gone. Even…” He wets his lips and his gaze darts away. “Even Octavia.”

Clarke reaches for his arm, but he shrugs her away moving to lean on the window frame. Arms crossed to lock her out.

“Please, Bell. I saw something out there today. Something… not human.”

He laughs bitterly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m not joking.”

“I’m.  _ Done _ .”

“Bellamy!” Clarke jumps up from the bed. “I  _ need _ you to listen to me. I need  _ you _ .”

“Of course you do.” He glares at her before leaning his head back against the window frame. “That’s how it’s always been.”

She snaps.

She grabs a pencil from the can on his side table and clenches it so tightly between her fingers she’s afraid it might shatter. She tears down his  _ Evil Dead _ poster, taking a rude satisfaction in the crisp sound of the corners ripping.

“Hey!”

She ignores his yell, flipping the poster around to the white backside and pressing it back on the sticky tack.

“Clarke!”

She starts sketching before he can protest again. An almost humanoid figure, with no face. Instead, the bulb-like head splits open into a flower from a nightmare, white petals of flesh curving away from a gaping mouth. 

She steps back from the hasty sketch and looks to Bellamy. “I saw  _ this _ .”

Bellamy’s stare is locked on the drawing. He steps up to it and his fingers brush it slightly.

“You saw this?”

“Yes.”

He turns to Clarke, fear spiking. “Don’t lie to me, Clarke. You really saw this out there?”

She grabs his hand. He’s shaking. “Yes. I’m telling you the truth.”

He looks back to the poster and then backs up to sit heavily on the bed, pulling Clarke with him.

“Bellamy. What’s going on?”

His grip tightens on her hand and for once she doesn’t mind, the shared human contact keeping her grounded.

“I’ve…” He hesitates, swallows hard, and starts again. “I’ve seen this before.”

“ _ What _ ?”

He nods, slowly at first and then emphatically faster. “I thought I was going crazy. Missing Octavia.”

“ _ Where? _ Where did you see it?”

Bellamy wets his lips and nods slightly towards the poster. “Right there.”

Clarke stares at her drawing, uncomprehending for a few seconds.

“I see it in the walls,” he murmurs. “Like it’s trying to break through. To take me too.”

Clarke doesn’t care what the nature of their relationship is. She doesn’t care about their history. Their complications. How she can hardly bring herself to talk to him in the daylight.

She loops her arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, letting him drop his head against her shoulder. Rests her chin in his hair.

“Hey. We’re going to figure this out,” she whispers. Maybe she still believes it.

  
  
  


_ February 21, 1984 _

“Hey, Princess.”

It’s too cold to be outside. Cold and dark and wet, with snow seeping up through the bottom of Clarke’s boots and turning her toes into blocks of ice.

She spins to the voice, heart in her throat and flashlight brandished to strike if necessary, but the figure approaching through the trees is familiar.

“Bellamy?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You got me. Don’t swing.”

She blinks a few times before sheepishly lowering her flashlight. “What are you doing out here?”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets quickly and she realizes with a flicker of shame that he’s not wearing gloves. “You don’t own these woods, right?” he asks, nonchalantly. “Can’t a man go for a walk around here?”

He takes a step closer and Clarke bites her lip hard to keep herself focused. Bellamy’s shoulders flex as he shrugs and offers her a disarming smile and her heart skips a beat.

Calm down.

“So what are you doing out here, Princess?”

She narrows her gaze at him, shining her flashlight beam at his chest. “Why do you call me that?”

He shrugs again and not for the first time she thinks about how unfairly bulky his shoulders look, even under the rippled cloth of his coat.

“You’re a princess, right? Rich, spoiled girl that lives with both of her rich parents and who dates rich, handsome basketball stars in high school.”

“Finn and I aren’t together anymore!” Clarke snaps. 

Then bites her tongue before she can say anything else stupid.

Bellamy looks genuinely concerned. “Ah. I’m sorry. What happened?”

Bellamy Blake is asking her about her break up and she’s standing knee deep in a pile of ice with wet socks, absolutely tongue-tied.

She waves her flashlight vaguely. “You know… after everything…”

Bellamy narrows his gaze and then nods. “Right. Sorry.”

She slumps her shoulders, letting her beam fall on the crusty snow. A tiny circle of light in a forest of darkness. “I’m… that’s why I’m out here. Looking.”

Bellamy sighs deeply enough for her to look up. “The police called off Octavia’s case today,” he says so quietly she can barely hear him, even in the muted winter silence.

She feels a trickle of fear in the pit of her stomach. If Octavia’s case was closed already…

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. 

“I know.” Bellamy actually smiles. “I know you’ve always meant it, Princess. You were just… an easy target.”

She blinks at him again as he takes another step forward and holds out his hand. “I want to offer an apology. And an… alliance.”

“Alliance?”

“You said we could help each other. I think you’re right.”

Clarke closes her eyes and takes a breath. “Well clearly the fucking cops aren’t going to take care of this.”

Bellamy snorts wryly. “Clearly.”

She opens her eyes, taking in his grin. “So what do you say, Princess? Partners?”

Clarke shouldn’t do it. The last thing she should do is take Bellamy Blake’s hand. But the woods are dark and Bellamy’s eyes so incredibly warm.

“Partners.”

  
  
  


_ November 8, 1984, 1:13 p.m. _

The baseball bat is comforting in Clarke’s hands. Bellamy dug out an old pair of weightlifting gloves and helped her tighten the wrist straps so they wouldn’t slip. She tries not to linger on the intimacy of his fingers brushing her pulse point or the way their gazes lock every few seconds just to check in with each other.

There are far more important things to think about.

Like the fact that they’re actually out in the woods hunting a monster with nothing but a baseball bat and an ancient handgun.

Fucking insane indeed.

The sun continues to climb as Clarke leads Bellamy towards the bank of thorny bushes from the morning. The only sound is their own soft breaths and the erratic whistle of the wind. Bellamy holds a finger to his lips as they approach the bushes, but the warning is unnecessary. Clarke is already stifling her breath, willing herself into complete silence.

A soft rattling sound catches her ear and she stiffens.

One step.

She nods sharply to Bellamy and he yanks back the thorn bushes in a sudden sweep.

A single leafless bush rattles its empty branches hollowly in the wind a few feet in front of them.

Clarke lets out her breath, relief and disappointment rushing through her.

“Should we spread out?” Bellamy whispers. His knuckles are white around the pistol grip, but he’s not shaking.

Clarke gives him a quick shake of her head. “We’re sticking together. End of story.”

He doesn’t argue and they press through the woods side by side.

  
  
  


_ November 8, 1984, 8:07 p.m. _

Her feet hurt. Her head hurts. Her hands hurt from gripping her bat so tightly.

But neither one suggests turning back. 

The sun disappears and the woods become a maze of shadows and darker shadows. Clarke loses count of how many times she trips over an unseen branch or stone. She’s positive her toes are bruised beneath her shoe.

“Clarke.”

Bellamy’s voice shakes her from her brain fog and she carefully steps over a dead limb to join him in staring at a trembling, bloodied deer lying on the ground.

“Oh…” She scans the body, stillness only broken by the deer’s heaving, pained breaths. “Poor thing must have been hit by a car.”

They stare at the deer silently. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth as it pants harshly, whining with a pitch that Clarke’s never heard before. She doesn’t like it.

“We should put it out of its misery,” she whispers. The black eye of the deer flicks toward her voice and she suppresses a shudder.

“Yeah.” Bellamy is slow to click off the safety on his gun and his arm seems to drag through the air at half normal speed as he raises it. His jaw tenses and Clarke suddenly puts her hand on his arm.

“I can do it.”

“Clarke,” he protests, but his wrist is already drooping. Clarke gently takes the gun from him and hands off the bat.

“I’ve got it.” She lines up the barrel with the deer’s head. The creature seems to sense their intent, survival instinct kicking in as it whines louder.

Clarke shivers.

The deer whines. Sides bellowing with the force of death-defying breaths.

So much sticky blood. Soaking the leaves.

Her hand shakes. Bellamy looks away and her hand keeps shaking.

The deer cries and breathes and bleeds.

And shoots through the undergrowth in the blink of an eye, body being dragged backward with immense force.

Clarke chokes on her own gasp of shock.

“Did you see that?”

Bellamy blinks at the empty space. “What was that?”

Clarke swallows hard and hands him the gun, head pounding. “ _ It’s _ here.”

She takes a tentative step forward, bending to look at the crushed leaves and the pooling blood.

“Here,” she points to the blood streaked across the undergrowth where the deer was pulled away. “We can follow the trail.”

Bellamy stays a half-step behind her as they follow the blood, even as it grows fainter. It only takes a few minutes for the trail to disappear entirely. Clarke casts about in a tight circle on the ground, heart pounding in frustration.

“No more blood?” Bellamy asks gruffly, continuing to scan the trees around them, gun at the ready.

Clarke shakes her head mutely and Bellamy steps in front of her to continue leading them through the trees. She only gives herself a second to marvel at the way they’ve slipped seamlessly into wordless communication and then falls in step behind him.

Almost missing the low gurgling sound coming from the base of a tree to her left.

She freezes.

The wind tosses the ends of her hair and stirs up a small swirl of leaves around her ankles, but nothing else moves.

She’s imagining things. She must be imagining things.

The base of the tree looks strange, illuminated in the bright beam of her flashlight. As Clarke steps closer, she notes a smattering of blood drops against the roots and feels a flash of triumph.

“Bellamy,” she hisses into the darkness behind her.

Nothing.

She spins, flashlight beam bouncing wildly off of the surrounding tree trunks.

“Bellamy?”

Her heart hammers faster, almost painfully, against her ribs.

Clarke kneels at the base of the tree and carefully puts her hand against the shadowy, hollow between the roots. She jerks instinctively back in surprise as her fingertips meet a thick slimy substance.

She takes a shaky breath and then slowly snakes her hand back into the hollow, gritting her teeth as she pushes it through the slime and into… empty space?

Clarke pulls her hand back again and ducks her head to peer through the hole. The slimy shadow covering the hole is a clouded grey, impossible to see through.

Clarke sits back on her heels for a second. The hole is just big enough for her to crawl through. She could see for herself.

The blood spatter around the tree taunts her. Offering answers to long asked questions.

She won’t ever forgive herself if she doesn’t try.

The baseball bat won’t fit through the hole so she props it against the tree. Shoving her head through the viscous veil is one of the most distasteful things she’s ever done. The slime drips down the collar of her jacket and she muffles her gasp at the shocking cold. She wiggles forward, back scraping against the wood of the tree until her head pokes through the other side and she can pull herself out.

She stands cautiously, flashlight flickering as she tries to see where she is. Not the woods. At least not  _ her _ woods. Something like ash falls through the air, papery and soft. When she reaches out to touch a flake, it falls apart. The trees are bent and snarled, covered in the slimy substance from the hole. As she takes a step forward, she kicks up a swirl of the ash and she coughs, lungs burning.

“Where the hell am I?”

  
  
  


_ January 15, 1984 _

She’s watching Bellamy from across the lunchroom again. Intrigued. Obsessed.

She’s obsessed and she knows it’s dangerous.

Her pencil stills over her sketchpad and she frowns at the result. His chin still isn’t quite right. She can’t quite capture the way his jaw tenses when he’s frustrated or scared. She runs her eraser lightly over the paper, smudging the lines just enough for her to start drawing over them.

She’ll get it right. She has to.

Finn tells her she’s mixing all of this up in her head. She’s obsessed with solving the disappearances. Guilty about the party.  _ In love _ with Bellamy.

She doesn’t correct him.

Somehow it’s all connected, she just knows it. If she gets Bellamy, she can solve the cases. If she solves the cases, she absolves herself.

Bellamy is the key. He’s always been the key. Him and his sister.

Clarke has files and files stashed under her bed of newspaper clippings, birth records, police reports. It’s taken months to compile everything and she knows she’s on the verge of something.

Finn calls her crazy.

Finn doesn’t understand.

Not like Bellamy would.

Her pencil stills again and she tilts the pad for better light. Smiles.

Perfect.

  
  
  


_????????, ?, ????, ???? ???? _

The flashlight flickers incessantly, no matter how many times Clarke bangs the casing. She gives up and staggers forward, one arm tucked to her chest in a futile attempt to stay warm. There’s no wind. The ash floats down completely undisturbed except by her own harsh breaths. The cold is simply all around her, soaking into her bones from the air, crawling up her legs from the ground. She stifles another bout of coughing as her lungs try to reject the foreign ash.

One step. One step. One step.

Find them.

She keeps moving.

The shadowy world is a mirror. The woods familiar in their unfamiliarity. So she sets her blinking light towards the Collins’ property and pushes forward.

The woods feel endless, her feet crunching softly and yet still too-loudly over the ash covered leaves. She longs for her baseball bat or Bellamy’s gun.

She longs for Bellamy.

Then slaps herself for that thought. He’s better off alone.

She swallows a sudden lump in her throat.

_ She’s _ better off alone.

She approaches the Collins’ house with caution, teeth on edge at the sight of the dark reflection of the house she was once so familiar with. The usually pristine property is covered in thick, monstrous vines of some kind. Even though Clarke is pretty sure they’re plants, she avoids stepping on them anyways. The gorgeous eaves are caved in, buckled under the weight of heaped ash. Her blinking light finds the empty pool.

One step.

The ladder into the pool shakes under her weight. The thick vine tentacles snake over the sides and along every crevice of the cracked tiles. She gasps as her hand slides over the slimy skin of one and ash flutters into her mouth sending her into another choking fit.

Finally, Clarke swings her legs down and jumps to the bottom of the pool. The flashing light illuminates heaps of slimy vines and dead leaves and ash.

And something else curled in the corner of the pool.

One step.

A body. Familiar. A coat she once borrowed at a school dance. A pair of shoes she remembers describing to the police. But she has to see his face. Has to know.

One more step.

  
  
  


_ November 7, 1983 _

Josephine lets out an unearthly, high-pitched scream as Gabriel dangles her over the edge of the pool.

“Put me down!”

Finally relenting with a laugh, Gabriel swings her back onto the pavement to be greeted with her angry shove.

“Dick!”

Finn chuckles and Clarke ducks her head to hide the way she’s smiling. She spares a quick glance for Wells who is sitting in the pool chair next to her and he rolls his eyes at her antics.

“You know he just wants to get in your pants, right?” Wells whispers.

Even though they’re far enough from the other three that Finn can’t hear them, Clarke frowns at her best friend. “Shhh…”

Wells rolls his eyes again. “Come on, Clarke. You’re not this dumb. I know you can figure out what’s going on.”

Clarke tilts her head at him, going for an innocent look and entirely failing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wells huffs and leans back in the lounge chair. “Whatever. I think I’m just going to go.”

“No, Wells! Come on!” Clarke leans across the gap between their chairs pleadingly. “You said you’d come and you’re here! Just have fun!”

Wells shifts a little as Finn walks up to them, giving her one more warning look as their host tosses a can of beer from hand to hand.

With a flourish Finn produces a pocket knife and stabs the beer can in the side, hurriedly holding it up to his mouth and gulping it down. Within seconds the can is empty and he tosses it to the ground with a tinny echo.

Clarke attempts to hide her wide smile, but she knows by Finn’s smirk that she’s failing again.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” she teases.

Finn widens his eyes comically and shrugs. “Did it not?”

“Anyone could do that.”

“Oh, really?” Finn produces another can and tosses it to her. “Will you do the honors then?”

Clarke feels a soft pang of panic and glances over to Wells who seems to be stuck in a perpetual glare. Then back to Finn who arches an eyebrow daringly and her courage rises. She grabs his knife and punctures the side before throwing back her head and chugging the beer. It tastes awful, but she resists the urge to throw it down immediately, forcing herself to swallow it all before dropping the can with a clatter and giving a mock bow to the others’ applause.

Josephine is cackling. “Hey, pretty girl really can party!”

Clarke blushes in pleasure and glances at Wells again. His lips are drawn tightly in displeasure and he gives her a minute shake of her head and another rumble of panic churns in her gut. Accompanied by anger.

This is her time to have fun and her best friend is ruining it.

Fuck that.

She grabs another can of beer and thrusts it towards Wells. 

“Here, Wells. You want to try?”

“Uh, no… That’s okay.”

“Come on!” Clarke cajoles. “It’s fun. Just try.”

She looks over her shoulder at Finn and he picks up her encouragement, starting to chant, “Wells! Wells! Wells!”

Gabriel and Josephine pick up the chant and Wells reluctantly takes the beer and the knife. He doesn’t meet Clarke’s eyes as he sets the tip of the knife over the side of the can and hesitantly stabs.

The knife slides harmlessly off the aluminum, swiping down across Wells’ thumb and into his palm. He jerks away, knife and beer falling to the ground as the chanting abruptly halts.

Clarke wants to throw up as she rushes forward to see blood already dripping from her friend’s hand.

“Wells! Are you okay?” She reaches for his wrist and he yanks it away harshly.

“I’m fine!”

Clarke summons her own anger back to the surface to help her stand back from him as Finn directs Wells to the bathroom inside. Clarke has the urge to apologize, as Wells disappears into the house. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek, wondering what Finn must think of her now.

Suddenly, Josephine screeches again as Gabriel pushes her into the pool. He doesn’t even wait a second before diving in after his girlfriend, both of them yelling with laughter. Clarke steps up to the side, longing for the courage to join them. Finn plants his hands on her shoulders and shoves her forward, making the decision for her. She topples into the steaming pool with a scream of her own and the ensuing splash fight washes the rest of Clarke’s shame away.

Gabriel and Josie end up wrapped around each other with their hands everywhere and Clarke feels Finn’s fingers intertwine with her own as they float together on the far end of the pool. Usually she would push him away, but tonight she laces their fingers tighter together and tugs him a little closer. Encouraged, he drapes an arm around her waist.

“I think I have some dry clothes in my room,” he whispers and she feels a pleasant shiver of anticipation right down to her toes.

They practically chase each other up the stairs to his room, with Finn quickly leaping past her.

“Clarke?”

Wells’ confused voice pulls her from the haze of excitement and she turns to where he’s standing at the foot of the stairs. A thick towel is wrapped around his hand, but she can already see blood soaking through. He probably needs stitches.

“What are you doing?”

She wraps her arms around herself, as if she can hide. “I… um… I got a little wet.” She attempts a reassuring smile, but Wells doesn’t smile back. She drops her arms. “I’m just going up to grab some dry clothes from Finn’s room.”

Hurt flashes through Wells’ eyes. “Clarke? Seriously?”

Clarke licks her lips. “Why don’t you just go home? I can… I can get a ride from someone later.”

“Clarke!”

His aghast tone prickles under her skin. She glances briefly at his bloody hand and hates the shame tugging at her throat. She swallows it carefully.

“Wells. Go home.”

She turns away from her best friend and follows Finn into his bedroom. 

  
  
  


_????????, ?, ????, ???? ???? _

Wells’ face is bloated and pale. Covered in slime. Clarke stumbles back in horror. Her hand flies to her mouth, holding back a scream. Or maybe the intense need to vomit up everything she’s ever eaten. 

Her flashlight clatters to the ground and illuminates her best friend’s corpse with wild flashes.

Clarke’s chest starts heaving, panic building, sobs forcing their way out of her constricted throat.

“Wells.”

The whisper of acknowledgement hurts more than finding the body. She aches from the inside out. She drops to her knees, clutching her stomach as if somehow she can tear out the ball of guilt threatening to eat her alive.

“Wells…” She breaks off into a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

A low gurgle drones across the pool. Gurgling and clicking punctuated by a few soft, high-pitched cries.

Clarke grabs her mouth, stifling her panicked sobbing. She hyperventilates into her fingers as she spins to look around the rest of the pool. Empty.

The gurgling gets louder.

She needs to run.

It takes her two tries before she catches the lowest rung of the pool ladder with her flashlight in her hand. She hauls herself up and over the side, trying not to think about the possibility of Wells trying to climb out the same way months ago.

Clarke runs, feet snagging on hidden vines. The gurgling intensifies as she heads into the woods and she forces herself to stop.

She turns to scan her surroundings.

Comes face to face with a bulbous-faced monster, long, lithe, white body shining eerily in the twilight. The bulb head flares open with a horrendous shriek and she  _ feels  _ spittle from its open mouth spray over her face.

Clarke doesn’t think. She moves.

She smashes her flashlight straight into that gaping black mouth and she sprints away. The monster screams behind her, unearthly and petrifying.

She keeps running.

Straight back towards that cursed tree. Back to Bellamy.

But which tree?

“Fuck.”

Nearly identical slime covered trees tower over her. She can’t stop running. She can’t think.

She can’t do this alone.

“Bellamy!” she screams as loud as she can. “Bellamy!”

Her feet skid through layers of decay and her lungs feel like they’re going to explode. She prays.

Then, “Clarke! Where are you?”

His voice is faint, like it’s coming from behind a wall. She could cry with happiness.

“Bellamy! Where are you?”

“Clarke?”

His voice is closer.

She slows her pace, even though everything in her is urging her to keep running. Monster spittle drips down her neck.

“Bellamy?”

A slight pause. Then, “Clarke! Follow my voice! Follow my voice, Clarke!”

Louder and clearer. He doesn’t stop talking as she starts to circle trees looking for her tunnel. His voice echoes, guiding her home.

“Come on, Clarke! Follow my voice!”

Clarke’s fingers meet viscous slime and she punches through as hard as she can. The barrier is thicker than before, as if it’s trying to trap her in the monster’s world.

“Clarke!”

She feels Bellamy’s hand and she wraps her fingers around his wrist.

Low gurgling and clicking cuts across the desolate landscape.

Clarke finally panics.

“Bellamy! Please! Bellamy!” she babbles.

Her knees scrabble on the slick ground as she tries to push herself through the tiny hole, but the slime is resistant. Pushing her back towards the monster.

“I’ve got you!” Bellamy’s other hand finds her forearm and suddenly he’s pulling. Clarke digs her feet into the ground behind her and shoves herself forward.

And then she’s bursting through the slime and Bellamy is pulling her up into the fresh, regular air with a never ending string of reassurances.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Momentum pulls her into his arms and she doesn’t care. He’s real and warm and alive. So, so alive.

“I’ve got you,” he’s still murmuring in her ear and she lets him, clinging to him so tightly she’s sure he’ll have bruises. She presses her face to his warm, solid chest and listens to his heart beat with its reassuring humanness. He’s got her. She’s safe.

  
  
  


_ May 9, 1984 _

This is stupid. So stupid.

Clarke fidgets at the end of the Blakes’ driveway, twisting her fingers.

Bellamy has every right to hate her.

She stalked him. Invaded his privacy. Ignored his requests. 

Bellamy  _ should _ hate her.

But she has to try. Wells would want her to try.

She lets that fleeting strength carry her forward and knocks firmly on the door.

Bellamy comes to the door himself. Gaze shuttered and dark.

“What do you want?”

Clarke swallows hard. “To apologize.”

He stares at her for a beat.

“Go to hell.”

“Bellamy…”

“I mean it.” He moves to swing the door shut and Clarke panics. She sticks her foot out and the door wedges against her shoe. Bellamy swings it back open with a look of utter contempt.

“Are you fucking serious?”

She’s committed now. And desperate. She shoves her way past him into the house.

“What the hell?!”

“I need to apologize!” she spits out breathlessly. “I know what I did was wrong. I… I can’t stop thinking about you. About how we must be connected because of your sister and Wells and… I don’t know!” Clarke paces past him and then spins around throwing her hands up. “I don’t know, okay?! I’m insane. Like you said! I’m fucking insane, okay? But I  _ am _ sorry. I was wrong. We’re not connected. I thought if I… if I had you then everything else would make sense. But then I lost you and I’m no closer to solving the disappearances anyways. So what was the fucking point?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Bellamy growls, but he’s not kicking her out so she presses on.

“I’m so,  _ so _ sorry, Bellamy. I’ll go away. I’ll leave you alone forever. But I just want you to know that I was wrong. And I know that now. You’re not the answer for me.”

She stops abruptly, the words suddenly running out. It seems like a terrible place to end her apology, but there’s a look she’s never seen in Bellamy’s eyes before and she decides to leave before she does any more damage. She moves to walk past him, but he slams the door and presses her back against it hard.

“Maybe I don’t have to be your answer,” he growls. She didn’t know his voice could go any lower, but it’s in an octave now that sends a supernatural vibration through the soles of her feet. “That doesn’t mean you can’t use me.”

His breath warms her lips for a split second before he’s pressing an insistent kiss against her mouth.

And, oh god, she kisses him back. Moaning desperately into his mouth. Hungrily.

Bellamy slides his leg forward and nudges his knee delicately between her legs and Clarke moans again, body already responding to him. Like he already knows every inch of her.

Bellamy pulls back and this time she recognizes the look in his eyes because she feels it too.

“Bedroom?” he whispers.

The heat in her belly flickers into raging fire.

“Show me.”

  
  
  


_ November 8, 1984, 9:56 p.m. _

It’s strange seeing Bellamy in Clarke’s bedroom. Even six months after graduation, she sleeps in the same bedroom she always has in her parents’ house. The light pink walls are covered in paintings and sketches, some from her childhood, some more recent. A collage of photos cover one wall, Wells featuring prominently in most of them.

She can’t even look at them right now without getting sick.

The shower doesn’t help. Warm water cascades over her slime soaked hair and the scent of it fills her nose. With a little gasp, Clarke grabs her loofah and starts scrubbing. And scrubbing and scrubbing. Her skin is red and raw by the time the water runs cold and she forces herself to step out.

Flashes of Wells’ face torment her every time she closes her eyes. The sound of gurgling and clicking taunts her. The feeling of the monster’s warm saliva coating her skin.

She doesn’t even brush her hair, letting the wet tangles fall haphazardly down her shoulders as she stumbles back to her bedroom.

Bellamy is carefully arranging her blankets and pillows, the covers already turned down for her.

For some reason the sight pulls her up short.

“Hey.” He gives her a thin smile. “Shower help?”

She opens her mouth to lie and starts crying instead. Shoulders shaking with the force of it.

Bellamy rushes to her and this time she throws her arms around him voluntarily. Pulling him closer as he whispers more nonsense reassurances to her.

None of it matters. Or maybe all of it matters.

Wells is dead. And she only has herself to blame.

Her sobs finally die down and Bellamy helps her climb into bed. Something about the way he draws the covers up to her chin feels tender. Soft.

“Lights on or off?” he asks.

She shakes a little with the memory of the bone-biting chill of the shadows. “On. Definitely.”

He nods and for the briefest second passes his hand over her cheek. Then snaps it back to his side. 

“I better get back to the house,” he mutters. 

“Wait!”

He stares expectantly and Clarke waits for the rush of embarrassment to come. But it doesn't. Not tonight.

“Stay? Please?”

His lips part slightly as his gaze softens, something bright dancing behind his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She slides back the covers and he only hesitates a second before slipping his shoes off and climbing in next to her. He holds himself stiffly at first until she loops her arm around his and curls next to him, pressing insistently into his warmth. Slowly he relaxes and they lie silent and awake and together.

  
  
  


_ June 16, 1984 _

Clarke sits in his lap as his fingers press bruises into her hips. She digs her fingernails into the backs of his shoulders and lifts herself up, up, up before sliding back down, clenching around him as he groans into her chest. His tongue laps along her bare skin and the sensation is too much, too much…

She rocks back and forth as she climaxes, head thrown back, eyelids screwed shut as her vision flashes white. Bellamy grunts and abruptly pulls her away, pushing her down on her stomach. A few seconds later, she hears his gasp and feels telltale warmth spilling across her ass and she giggles.

“What?” Bellamy asks breathlessly.

Clarke giggles again and she’s not even sure why. She feels weightless. Floating. Almost happy.

Bellamy wipes her clean and the way he moves his hand, the damp cloth, it all feels so reverent. He rolls her over and he’s not smirking. Not snarky. Not even smiling.

He just looks peaceful.

He lays down next to her and she reminds herself, this is the part where she gets up. This is the part where she gets up. This is the part where…

She doesn’t remember why.

“Clarke… I think we need to stop.”

His words crash through her golden haze. “What?”

He props himself up on one elbow. “Not… this. Not us.” He gestures between them.

Clarke narrows her gaze, ire rising. “Okay, then…?”

He sighs deeply. “The hunting. Investigating. Whatever we’re trying to do. I think it’s time to stop.”

“You can’t be serious.” Clarke sits up, ignoring the dizziness from her sudden movement.

“I am.” He definitely looks serious. “We’ve been looking for months. All that’s happening is that we’re ignoring the rest of our lives. You’re ignoring  _ your _ life. You could be applying for schools. Amazing jobs. You have so much to live for and yet you’re wasting all your time on… this.”

“It’s not wasted,” she spits. She hunches in on herself, suddenly cold. She wonders what happened to her shirt.

Bellamy pauses.

“They’re probably dead,” he whispers and Clarke wants to punch him.

“You don’t know that!”

“You’re right!” He sits up and reaches for her hands. “But I do know that you need to move on. You need to live your life. Isn’t that what Wells would want?”

Clarke snatches her hands back. “You have no idea what he would want.”

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair and looks away, jaw tensing.

Clarke draws her knees up to her chest, suddenly feeling very small. “When did you decide all this?”

Bellamy stares at the wall as if he’s going to burn a hole through it. “When I decided I couldn’t care about and keep watching you go down this path. I can’t, Clarke. I just can’t.”

“So… what are you saying?”

He swallows. “Either the investigation ends or we do.”

Time seems to slow as she hunches there on that ratty bedspread, still sweating and smelling like sex. Smelling like Bellamy. Bellamy who runs his hands up and down her body like she’s a goddess. Bellamy who told her to use him. Bellamy who most definitely isn’t connected to her in any meaningful way.

A lie she keeps telling herself.

She’ll be lying to herself either way. And to him.

So she plasters a smile across her face.

“Then I guess I’m done investigating.”

  
  
  


_ November 9, 1984, 7:15 a.m. _

Clarke wakes up before Bellamy. She doesn’t remember falling asleep.

She does remember nightmare after nightmare. A guilt that can’t be assuaged.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and huddles against her headboard as the morning light gradually grows brighter. She still doesn’t shut off the lamp.

She doesn’t realize Bellamy is awake until he’s putting his arm around her and using his thumb to swipe away the silent tears on her cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

She listens to his heart beat again. Steady. Dependable.

No more lies.

“I want to kill it.”

Her admission rings through the air. She feels empty. Peaceful.

Cards on the table this time.

Bellamy tightens his arm around her and she waits for his argument.

He presses a kiss to her temple. So gentle she can barely feel it.

“Are you sure?”

She nods. Resolute.

Bellamy is silent for a beat. Then another.

Then, “For Octavia.” His voice rough with a year of unshed tears.

Clarke grabs his hand and watches the way their fingers slot together perfectly. No chinks in their armor. Not anymore.

“For Wells.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! And for bearing with me through my fumbling tags. Seriously, if anyone has opinions on how I should tag this for the sex scenes, let me know! I also want to make it explicitly clear for concerned readers that Bellamy and Clarke are both over eighteen the entire story and have graduated by the time they start sleeping together. No high school smut here!
> 
> I also actually had more for this story, but I ran into the word maximum a lot faster than I thought I would! So maybe look out for an updated version sometime in the future? Maybe???
> 
> Title is from "The Ghost In You" by the Psychedelic Furs.


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